by Evans, Tabor
“Assuming she really did,” Longarm said.
“Exactly.”
“Well, someone, somewhere, has to know some-damn-thing,” Longarm said.
“I wish you luck finding them,” Rutter said. “The robberies occurred outside my jurisdiction, but if there is any way I can help, Long, I’ll be glad to do so.”
“I thank you, Sheriff. What I’d like from you, if I may, would be the name of this Philadelphia newspaperwoman. Just in case she’s still out this way.”
“Of course,” Rutter said. “Anything I can do. Anything at all.”
Chapter 8
Longarm returned to the Cheyenne post office, but this time instead of Osgood he asked the clerk if he might see the Cheyenne postmaster.
“Look, mister, we got work to do here,” the clerk complained.
“Yes,” Longarm said agreeably, “and so do I. Mine includes talkin’ with your postmaster. So you can politely point the way for me or I can discuss with your p’lice chief about charging you with obstruction of a federal officer in the performance o’ his duties. I dunno. Maybe the judge will let you off with, say, ten or twenty days. Prob’ly no more’n a month.” Longarm put on an innocent and open expression and smiled at the man.
The mail clerk blanched and stepped back away from his cage. “I, um…this way, please.”
Longarm went inside the caged area and meekly followed the postal clerk to a tiny cubbyhole of an office that was protected by a door stout enough to stop at full-on assault by Viking warriors.
The postmaster was inside, caught reading the morning newspaper with his feet propped up on his desk. He did not bother dropping them to the floor until he saw that the clerk had brought a stranger with him. The man’s shoes, Longarm noticed, were high-topped and shined to a gleam. Old-fashioned, he thought, and something of a fuddy-duddy.
“Who are you,” the man challenged, “and what do you want?”
The clerk extracted himself from the situation and got the hell out of there. Longarm smiled again and fleetingly wished he could follow the clerk back to wherever the man went. Instead all he did was to introduce himself and show his badge.
“Sit. Go on. Sit down.” The postmaster, T. Jonathon Jessup, vaguely motioned in the direction of an empty chair that sat in front of the desk.
Longarm sat.
“You would be here about the mail theft,” the postmaster said, sounding quite certain about it.
Longarm nodded. “I am.”
“Osgood will have told you everything we know,” Jessup declared.
Longarm nodded again. “Almost everything, perhaps. But I have some questions for you, too.”
“Fine, but be quick about it. I’m busy.”
“So I see,” Longarm drawled, making it clear that indeed he had seen the newspaper and the feet on the desk.
“Go on then. You have questions. Ask them.”
“It isn’t about this robbery so much as about your procedures. How would any of your people know what might be in the mail?”
“We wouldn’t,” Jessup said. “Not unless a package is insured. Then we might ask about the contents. Otherwise, nothing.”
“So none of your people could know what is on those stagecoaches?” Longarm asked.
“No. They couldn’t. Not at all.”
Longarm grunted. Thought for a moment. “Who would?”
“Talk to the people who operate the coaches,” Jessup suggested.
“And they would be…?”
“Tom Delancey in the Fremont Stage Company office. It’s across the street and down a block. There is a sign. Can’t miss it.”
“All right, I’ll try him. But I did want to know about your procedures.”
“Why?” Jessup wanted to know.
Longarm shrugged. “In something like this, Mr. Jessup, you cast your lines on the waters an’ hope something rises to snap at one.”
“Is that all then?”
“One more thing. Is Osgood the man who normally prepares the mail for shipment?”
Jessup nodded firmly. “He is.”
“Good,” Longarm said with a smile. “That probably means that none of your people are involved in this thing.”
Jessup looked puzzled.
“Somebody knew to tip the gang off to what shipments they should hit,” Longarm explained.
“Ah. Yes, of course.” Jessup picked up his newspaper again. “Is that all then?”
“Yes. At least for the moment,” Longarm said. “If there’s anything else, I’ll be back.”
Jessup only grunted. It was obvious he did not particularly like the idea of any federal officer peeking behind the doors at his post office. It was equally obvious that he knew there was nothing he could do about it. “Have a good day.” The man was already lost in his newspaper, feet up on the desk, before Longarm cleared the doorway.
Chapter 9
Thomas Arthur Delancey was young, strong, and harried. Longarm got the impression he was a man whose hard work and intelligence would serve him well in the future.
Longarm guessed Delancey was still in his twenties, perhaps even his early twenties, but he obviously knew his business and did it well. When Longarm introduced himself Delancey immediately set aside the clipboard loaded with shipping forms that he had been comparing against the pile of packages due to go out on the next Fremont Stage Company coach.
Delancey stuck his hand out to shake and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Long. Thanks for looking into this for us.”
“You understand what the situation is, I assume,” Longarm said.
Delancey nodded. “Of course. Until this recent robbery the only legal jurisdiction involved was local. Until there was mail included…Osgood told me what he had done…you had no authority to act. Now you do. Smart man, Osgood. I wish he would come to work for me here at Fremont. We could use more people with heads on their shoulders.” He smiled. “I think some of my fellows keep theirs strictly inside their britches.”
“I know the type,” Longarm said.
“You’ll be wanting to know how anyone could know there was cash on those coaches,” Delancey said. “That would be the logical question.”
“So it is,” Longarm said.
“I wish I could tell you. But then if I knew, Marshal, there wouldn’t be any more of these robberies, damn them.”
“Fremont is on the hook for the losses?” Longarm asked.
“No, we have insurance. On the other hand, our insurance rates are bound to go up because of this. Fremont is not a large company, Marshal. We operate on a small margin. I suppose most transportation companies do, but a large outfit like Overland or Wells Fargo makes up in volume for what it lacks in profit margin. We don’t have that luxury. We have only fourteen coaches covering six routes. We are solvent, but we can’t afford to give anything away. These losses are hurting us.”
“Do you think that could be deliberate on the part of the robbers? That is to say, do you think the purpose of the robberies is to damage Fremont Stage Company?”
“I have no reason to think so,” Delancey said. “I don’t know of anyone who would have cause to target us in particular. Besides, we’re not the only company that has been hit by these people. Some of Hal Tyler’s coaches have been robbed, too.”
“Tyler?” Longarm said. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that name. Who is he?”
“Hal is superintendent of the Bastrop line in Miles City. Good man, too. I know at least two of Hal’s coaches have been hit. I never heard the details or what they might have been carrying on board, but I do know they were hit.”
“Miles City,” Longarm said. “That means Montana. And another jurisdiction where they robbed. I’ll have t’ talk to the man, I think, never mind that those robberies wouldn’t be federal crimes. Sounds like the same gang involved though.”
“Like I said, Hal is a good man. I’m sure he will help you if he can.”
“Do you know where those coaches were bound?”
“Your losses, though,” Longarm said. “Were they all on the same runs?”
“Yes, they were. They were all dispatched to Lead and Deadwood, all carrying coinage the banks there need to meet payrolls.”
“Coins, not currency?”
Delancey nodded. “I suppose you know that almost everyone out here insists he be paid in coin. Those boxes would have held a little gold and a good amount of silver coins.” His expression was tight when he added, “Most salaries are very small, you see. They would pay mostly in silver.”
Longarm pulled at his chin and thought for a moment. “Heavy,” he said.
“The silver, you mean. Yes, the boxes would have been very heavy, but in each case that I know of they were broken open on the spot after the coaches rolled on and the coins taken out. The coins could have been transferred to saddlebags. The gang wouldn’t necessarily have needed a wagon to transport the money, although a wagon would have been useful.”
“What about the way the robbery was conducted? An’ do you mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead. My drivers tell me each time the robbers just suddenly appeared in front of them. They chose places on the road where there was a bend or a dip or something so the coach would just suddenly come upon this person standing there pointing a sawed-off shotgun at them. There would be one or two more standing beside the road, also with shotguns.
“None of them would say a word. Just gesture with the muzzles of those scatterguns. There are not too many drivers or guards who would make a play once that happened. And don’t forget, our people, like pretty much everyone in the business, has the protection of the passengers as our first priority. They did right to drop the box and drive on.”
“Your insurance company,” Longarm said, “would they have knowledge of the contents of those boxes? Ahead of time, I mean.”
“No, we have blanket coverage for our losses regardless of what we are carrying.”
“But your people would have to know what was in the boxes,” Longarm said.
“Yes, of course, but never ahead of time. The bank would bring their shipment to us at the last minute.”
“And their insurance?” Longarm asked.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Delancey said.
“What did the robbers look like?” Longarm asked, changing the subject. He pulled out a cheroot and lighted it.
“We have no descriptions, not even of voices since they did not speak. They wore long dusters buttoned to the throat. Sacks over their heads. Long gloves. Boots showing at ground level. Never anything that would identify them, at least nothing that any of my people saw.”
“Was anything found at the scenes afterward? Discarded masks or anything like that?”
“No, just the empty strongboxes. They took everything else with them.”
“What about horse tracks?” Longarm asked.
“Oh, it was easy enough to see where their horses had been tied. Droppings and all that sort of thing, but no indication of how many horses there had been or if some were pack animals while some were saddle horses.”
Longarm frowned in thought while he puffed on his cheroot for a moment. “Always the same bank doing the shipping?”
Delancey smiled. “I thought of that, too. A bank employee might have tipped them off. But no, the shippers were two different Cheyenne banks and one from Denver. And since the shipments were all consigned at the last minute…I suppose to keep information from getting out ahead of time…there would not have been time enough for any of my people to notify robbers a hundred miles or more away.”
“Obviously you’ve given this a great deal of thought,” Longarm said.
“Of course. The bastards are hurting Fremont. That means they are hurting me, and I just plain resent it,” Delancey said.
“Can’t say as I blame you,” Longarm told him, taking another drag on his cigar. “If I think of any more questions, I’ll be back.”
“Anytime, Marshal. I’ll be happy to do anything I can to find these sons of bitches and put them behind bars where they belong.”
“Thanks.” Longarm offered his hand again and left the Fremont Stage Company office. The day was wearing on and he was getting hungry. He figured he could chew on what he knew while he chewed on some beef.
Chapter 10
“Slab o’ beef and a mess o’ taters,” Longarm said. “Fry the both of them in tallow. Make ’em nice an’ crispy-like.”
“You want some pie while you’re waiting for your meal?” the waitress offered. It reminded Longarm that this was a railroad town, taking dessert first being a habit of the train crews.
“No, thanks,” he said. “Just coffee.”
The woman nodded and set a cup on the counter. She quickly filled it, then headed for the kitchen to turn in his order.
When his food came the steak was tough but tasty, the yellow fat suggesting it was grass-fed beef and probably local, the mountain of potatoes just the way he liked them. Longarm ate, then slid off the café stool and dropped a half dollar beside his plate. He nodded to the very busy waitress and ambled outside, pausing in the doorway to nip the twist off one of his cheroots. He struck a lucifer and lighted the slim cigar, then headed for one of the two Cheyenne banks that had lost shipments.
“You will want to speak with our comptroller, Mr. Walters,” one of the counter clerks said when Longarm introduced himself. “This way, please.”
The clerk led him to a small office tucked away at the back of the bank.
George Walters was probably in his early thirties, already balding. He was slightly pudgy. The hand he offered Longarm to shake was small and as soft as a woman’s, but his attitude was brisk and businesslike. Longarm got the impression that Walters knew his business.
“And, ah, what is it I can do for you today, Marshal?” Walters asked, motioning Longarm to a chair.
“The robberies,” Longarm said. “I need t’ know who in the bank knew about those shipments. When they were going an’ what was in them.”
Walters pursed his lips and steepled his hands under one of his several chins.
Longarm did not know whether he was pondering if he should answer the question or searching his memory for the answer.
“I knew,” Walters said after deliberation. “Our chief teller knew. The president knew.” He was silent for another moment or two, then added, “I believe that would be everyone.”
“Who took the coins to the Fremont office?”
“Again, Marshal, I did.”
“You carried all that coin?” Longarm asked. “You yourself?”
“Oh, I see what you mean. No, we have a handyman who works here. Davey something. Fitzsimmon, I think. Donnalson—that would be our head teller—Donnalson and I prepared the shipment. Counted the coins and sorted them. Packed them in canvas bags. They weighed between thirty-five and forty pounds per shipment. I escorted them to the Fremont office. Davey did the actual carrying using a hand truck.”
“So there were four of you who were aware of the shipments before they left Cheyenne.”
Walters nodded.
“Were they all bound for the same recipient?” Longarm asked.
“No. One was shipped to the Golden Star in Lead, Dakota Terrtory. Oddly enough, sir, the Golden Star produces silver. The others all went to the Stella Mining Company in Deadwood.” He frowned and shook his head. “That lone shipment consigned to the Golden Star was an especially heavy loss as the same box held coins intended for Stella.”
“Did all the shipments include specie for the Stella payroll?”
“Yes, they did,” Walters said.
“So someone at the Stella company would know the money was on its way?”
“Yes, of course. They ordered the shipments, after all.”
“How did they place the orders?” Longarm asked.
“By telegraph, of course.”
“So a telegraph operator would know, too.”
Longarm nodded and reached for a cheroot.
“Please don’t smoke in here,” Walters said.
“Sorry. What about your insurance?” Longarm asked. “Would your local agent know about the shipments?”
“Not in advance,” Walters said. “Naturally they had to know after the fact, but we took out no additional coverage for these shipments.” Rather primly he added, “We carry more than adequate insurance at all times.”
“Have all your coin shipments to Stella been stolen?” Longarm asked.
“Oh, no. We have been providing the Stella Mining Company with payroll for several years now. They do the bulk of their banking with us, you see. They ship processed ore. The smelter sends the raw gold to an agent in Chicago for sale in bulk. That firm deposits the profits in Stella’s account here. We draw against that to provide their payroll coinage.”
Longarm paused in thought. After a moment he said, “I’ll want t’ speak with your head teller and with this Davey person.”
“Of course.” Walters stood. He tugged his vest down where it had ridden up on his belly, then said, “Come with me, please.”
Half an hour later Longarm left the First Commerce Bank and Trust, little wiser than when he arrived. He very seriously doubted that any of the employees there, from the bank president on down to Davey Fitzsimmon, had anything to do with the robberies.
One more Cheyenne bank to go, he thought. But he was beginning to doubt that he would learn anything of importance there, either. He wondered if there would be any point to a trip north to Miles City to speak with this Hal Tyler with the Bastrop Stage Line.
Chapter 11
“Hello, Marshal.” Thomas Delancey smiled in welcome. “Do you have more questions for me?”
